


Little Tornado

by KareliaSweet



Series: Storms [5]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Falling In Love, M/M, Monster Hunters, Monsters, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-09-20 14:45:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9496286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KareliaSweet/pseuds/KareliaSweet
Summary: The first time Mischa calls him Perkūnas, Hannibal laughs and scoops her up into his arms as she squeals in delight.“Why Perkūnas?”She clasps his face between her hands in the solemn way of five-year-olds.“‘Cause you’re strong like all the storms,” Mischa says, “and there’s lightning in your eyes.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ever wonder what Hannibal's life was like before (and during) the events of the Storms Series? Wonder no more!

The first time Mischa calls him Perkūnas, Hannibal laughs and scoops her up into his arms as she squeals in delight.

“Why Perkūnas?”

She clasps his face between her hands in the solemn way of five-year-olds.

“‘Cause you’re strong like all the storms,” Mischa says, “and there’s lightning in your eyes.”

“Well,” Hannibal replies, “if I am the god of the storms, then _you_ ,” he tips her upside down and she squirms and giggles, “are my Little Tornado.”

Mischa laughs, upside down and breathless. “Let me go!”

Hannibal shakes his head. “Magic word, please.”

Instead of speaking, Mischa wriggles her body until it bursts into a flurry of white feathers and she flies out of his arms. Sparks of light burst from her tail.

“That’s cheating!” Hannibal calls after her, and receives only a cheeky squawk in reply.

“Perkūnas,” Mischa says one day, “why am I only a bird?”

Hannibal shrugs. “We never know what monsters we might become. Perhaps one day you could be a dragon.”

Mischa’s grey eyes go wide as saucers. “Really?”

“Really,” Hannibal says earnestly, “why when I was your age, I was only a tiny little mouse.”

Mischa gapes for a minute, then she frowns crossly. “You’re playing with me.”

Hannibal can’t help but laugh, loud and booming. Mischa claps her hands over her ears.

“You laugh like thunder, Perkūnas! Shhh!”

Hannibal quiets himself, still grinning.

It’s the last time he will laugh like that in his life.

-x-

The Red Dragon kills their parents first.

He is feasting on their bodies when Mischa finds him. She opens her mouth to scream and Hannibal quickly presses his hand over her mouth and pulls her backward. He grabs her up in his arms and runs. He runs past the edge of the castle grounds, into the frozen forest beyond, his feet pounding against the cold earth. He runs through dead trees, branches snapping and catching on his skin. Then his foot catches on a rotten vine and he trips, falling hard toward the ground. He rolls to his back to absorb the pain as Mischa clutches to him, her face buried in his throat.

Hannibal tries to scramble back to his feet, wincing as pain spikes up his leg. He keeps running, his pace reduced to a hobbling limp. If he doesn’t gain more ground soon, the dragon will be on their heels. Hannibal stops and tries to set Mischa down. She winds herself around him tighter and whimpers.

“Mischa,” he says urgently, “you have to fly.”

Mischa shakes her head, sobbing. “I can’t leave you, Perkūnas.”

He holds her close and kisses her forehead.

“You have to. Please.”

Her tears soak his hair and she trembles, still shaking her head.

Hannibal pulls her away and looks into her frightened eyes. “He will kill us both. You have to go. The God of Storms demands it.”

Tears spill out of her and her lip quivers, but she nods her head. Hannibal sets her down on the forest floor and steps away.

“Fly, Little Tornado.”

She bursts into a whirlwind of feathers and takes flight, her tail a bright white flame. She flies faster than he’s ever seen and relief floods his chest. No matter what happens to him, Mischa will be safe.

The dragon snatches her out of the sky.

Hannibal falls to his knees in shock. The white bird shrieks as the dragon catches her in its jaws, tossing her violently from side to side before he throws her to the ground below and dives after.

She lands not ten feet away, the dragon landing beside her with enough force to make the trees shake. One last spark of white flame floats up from her tail, and the dragon opens its mouth and swallows it whole.

Hannibal screams, his voice tearing his throat raw. He charges at the dragon without thinking, but the dragon just bats him aside with one massive wing, as though Hannibal were little more than a toy.

“ _Little Monster_ ,” the dragon growls. His yellow eyes shine cruelly and he laughs a gravelly laugh. “ _Do not play with me_.”

Hannibal gets to his feet and charges again, but his grief makes him sloppy and the dragon lands a vicious blow to his stomach, talons digging into his flesh and ripping. Hannibal falls back and the dragon hisses in his ear.

“ _I am all full up with your sister. Come for me when you’re grown and I’ll eat you then_.”

The dragon beats its leathery wings once, twice, then disappears into the night. Hannibal digs his fingers into the scorched earth and howls.

He spends three nights guarding Mischa’s remains as his waits for his wounds to knit back together. With no food or drink to nourish him, he heals slowly and painfully. On the fourth night, famished and sick with blood loss, he realizes the choice he must make. Stay here and die, or –

Or.

He weeps until dawn, holding Mischa close to his chest, and says the only prayer he will ever say in his long life. When the sun begins to crest in the sky, he closes his eyes and opens his jaws.

His wounds heal. He goes home. Chiyoh greets him silently at the gate, her tails low and flat to the ground.

“Murasaki is expecting you.”

They travel to his Uncle Robert’s estate in silence. When he arrives, they ask no questions, but he can see it in their eyes. They know, and they are disgusted. He knows he is not welcome here. There are certain things that even monsters should never do.

He departs a month later, under cover of darkness. He writes no note and leaves nothing of himself behind. Chiyoh is waiting for him at the gate, her eyes wet.

“I will not ask you to stay,” she tells him.

“Good.”

Chiyoh touches his elbow with three fingers. Hannibal nods. They do not embrace.

“I will kill him,” Hannibal promises.

Chiyoh lifts her chin in approval. “Good.” She opens the gate and Hannibal walks through it.

“There is an Augur,” Chiyoh says to his back, “she can help you find him.”

Hannibal stops, his body stiffening in distaste. “I don’t need help from a palm reader.”

Chiyoh’s tails swish angrily against the ground, kicking up leaves and dust. “Don’t be an idiot.”

Hannibal turns back, just as fierce. “Don’t call me an idiot.”

“Don’t be one, then.”

She stares him down, hard, until Hannibal’s shoulders slump and he sighs.

“How do I find her?”

“She has many names,” Chiyoh replies, “when I knew her she was Lady Fell, before that they called her Lydia.”

“And what does she go by now?”

“Madame DuMaurier.”

-x-

He finds the Augur in a grey stone house at the edge of a forgotten lake. She was difficult to find and he knows there’s a reason for it. He stands outside her door for three nights in the rain before she opens it. They stare at each other over the threshold – her in a thick woolen dressing gown and him in the traveling suit that’s soaked through and starting to smell of mildew. She looks him up and down and tosses her hair over her shoulders.

“Well,” she says, “come in then.”

She turns back into the house and does not wait for him.

“I’ve already drawn a bath.” Her voice trails up the stairs. “Follow me.”

Hannibal follows the sound of her voice until he comes to a small bathroom on the second floor. The Augur points to the copper tub, filled to the brim.

“Bath is there. Take off your clothes.”

Hannibal nods and strips efficiently. He stands naked before her and she nods toward the tub.

“In.”

He climbs in and she kneels on the floor behind him, dipping a clay cup into the steaming water and pouring it over his head. Hannibal closes his eyes.

“I’m here to ask for--”

“I know what you’re here for,” she says. She rubs a pungent oil into his hair, fingers digging into his scalp. “Tell me, how did your sister taste?”

Hannibal tries to turn but her grip on his head is surprisingly strong. She leans in beside him, her words low and close in his ear.

“I know what you are.”

“Then why did you let me in?”

She laughs, low and throaty, and her fingers slide out of his hair.

“I’m not afraid of monsters. Least of all the ones that ask to be let in.”

Another stream of fragrant water pours over his head.

“Perhaps those are the ones you should fear the most,” Hannibal says.

“Mm. Perhaps. Or perhaps I’ll put a Bind on you here and let you drown in the bath. Perhaps I’ll cut off your cock and make myself a necklace. Perhaps,” she says calmly, “you should be more afraid of _me_.”

Hannibal pulls away from her and stands in the tub, uncaring of his nakedness, water lapping at his calves. Steam rises around him, thickening the air.

“I have no time for threats. Either you'll help me or you won’t.”

The Augur folds her arms. “The Dragon is not yours to kill.”

Hannibal curls his lip. “That’s not your decision.”

“No. It isn’t.”

He makes a frustrated sound and wipes the water from his eyes. She throws a towel at him and he nearly fumbles the catch.

“Just tell me where to find him,” Hannibal says.

She presses her lips in a fine line and shakes her head. “No.”

Hannibal clambers out of the tub, stumbling slightly.

“What do you mean, _no_?” His words feel soft in his mouth and he tries to rub at his jaw, but his fingers are overlarge and clumsy.

The Augur watches him with sharp, icy eyes. Hannibal sways on his feet, squinting blearily at her.

“What have you done to me?

“Oil of betony,” she points at his dripping face, “in your hair.”

Hannibal falls to the ground with a wet thump.

“Why?”

“I had to see the Ravenstag for myself. You interest me greatly. But I can’t help you.”

She crouches beside him runs one elegant finger down his cheek. “I’ve taken away your nightmares, just for tonight.” Her lips brush against his, gossamer-light.

“Sleep well, Hannibal.”

“Nnn,” Hannibal tries to force the words out but they stick gluey to his tongue. “Have to find--”

Then everything is dark.

Hannibal wakes in a plain white bed with his clothes folded on a chair beside him. The room is cold, and when he dresses he finds that the house is abandoned, the floors and furniture coaked in a thick layer of dust.

A plain ivory notecard is tacked to the front door, one word written upon it in neat cursive.

 _Orleans_.

-x-

He searches for Orleans for three years and does not find it. No man, woman, or child has heard of it, no sailor or traveling merchant.

(Orleans will not exist for another eighteen years, but Hannibal does not know this yet).

He travels for long, fruitless years. He spends the time well, growing strong and practicing his forms. He makes homes in several towns, but grows bored in each one and ends up consuming the entire populace. He spends a whole year transformed as the Ravenstag, just to say that he can, but loneliness gnaws at his bones all the while.

After nearly two decades, he is ready to give up. Ready to track down the Augur, tear her limb from limb and eat each one - see if she can prophesize _that_. Then he hears it.

“Storm coming soon. They say it’ll hit Orleans the worst.”

He turns to the source of the voice, a sprite of a woman with red corkscrew curls.

“You said Orleans?”

The woman wrinkles her nose at him. “Yeah, and?”

“Where is it?”

A glint sparks in the woman’s eye. “What’s it worth to you?”

Hannibal takes her arm, smiling politely as he dips to whisper in her ear.

“It’s worth me sparing your life if you tell me immediately.” He digs his fingers into her arm and she squeaks.

“30 miles south. ‘Cross the mountains,” she says, her voice shaking, “but there’s a storm--”

Her words trail off into the wind. Hannibal is already running.

The storm closes down the roads, clogged with felled trees and muck. The path between the mountains takes four days to clear. 

By the time he gets to Orleans, The Great Red Dragon has been slain. By a fifteen year old _child_  named Will Graham.  Hannibal fumes with rage. The Dragon was his to take, not some human boy’s. It’s insulting. Embarrassing.

He decides there is only one thing to be done.

He must eat Will Graham.


	2. Chapter 2

The thing is, Hannibal never developed a taste for hurting children. Will Graham is still very young. He waited twenty years for the dragon (even if his bounty was unfairly stolen), he can wait a mere three until Will turns of age. Then, he vows, the boy is his.

Hannibal keeps his ear open to the gossip. They call Will the Fearsome Dragon Slayer. They summon him to Hobb to dispatch a lycanthrope, which he does with impressive speed, and the common theory is that he will become a monster hunter like his father. But where his father was brawny and amiable, Will is scrappy, they say, and obstinate. He refuses to dine with the people of Hobb in the traditional celebratory feast and gruffly takes only half of the payment they offer him. They call it shyness and generosity, but Hannibal wonders what lies beneath it.

The boy grows stronger, and the gossip inflates into worship. He is good at his work, so they say, there is no demon he cannot vanquish, no fiend he cannot defeat. Will Graham becomes a Legend, yet by all accounts he seems to hate it. Still, his kills grow by the score, and Hannibal finds himself oddly impressed. He starts to think that perhaps Will Graham _enjoys_ his profession.

The boy turns eighteen, and Hannibal decides he will wait one more year. He wants to see what else Will might do.

Praise continues to be heaped upon him, but the rumours start to turn sour. They say his most recent kill was rather… messy.

_‘Did there have to be so much blood?’_  
_‘Beverly says she saw him smiling after.’_  
_‘There’s something wrong with that boy.’_  
_‘But we’re ever so grateful for his service.’_  
_‘Of course, ever so.’_

After all, no one can dispatch a monster quite like Will Graham. Everyone is willing to turn a blind eye, so long as Will keeps the darkness at bay.

The rumours of his talents with a knife swell and grow, and Hannibal burns with the need to see if they are true. He tracks Will to Tierr Village, where his services have been requested in the capturing and disposing of a manticore. He knows already where the manticore lives, and finds a hidden spot near its cave to watch the famed Fearsome Dragon Slayer in action. Night falls, and Will Graham arrives.

Hannibal stares in shock. He is not at all what a Monster Hunter should look like. He's far too lovely, with cascading chestnut curls that kiss against the nape of his neck, piercing eyes that are entirely too blue (except when they turn seafoam green). His mouth is overripe, like a cherub’s, pink and pillowy-soft. His hands are delicate and fine-boned, fit more for music than for massacre.

 _This cannot be him_ , Hannibal thinks. But then he sees him kill.

The moment the blade slips into Will’s fingers his countenance turns feral. His violence lacks a certain grace, but it is mesmerizing. It is savage, and raw, and real. It is also - as the rumours say - far too messy, a whirlwind of destruction that leaves no quarter. Worse than a whirlwind, a tornado, but there is nothing little about him. He looms over his prey with the promise of death in his eyes, and then he smiles as he brings his blade down over and over, blood spattering freckles onto his cheekbones. Hannibal can call him no other word than what he is, which is beautiful. Will Graham is a revelation. A contradiction. He should not be, yet here he is.

Hannibal slinks away into the shadows. He cannot kill this boy yet. But he will.

Before he realizes it, eight years have passed.

One night, he dreams of a white bird. Its wings are broken and black flame curls up its tail. The bird looks at him with sad, grey eyes.

“Perkūnas,” the bird says with the voice of a child, “why haven’t you avenged me?”

Hannibal reaches his fingers toward the bird and it bursts into a swirling column of black flame. The little tornado wraps itself around him and starts to squeeze.

He wakes with a jolt. There can be no more delay, Hannibal decides, he’s allowed Will Graham to play for long enough. It’s time to collect his prize.

Hannibal makes himself a home in the town of Chesapeake, where he is welcomed as the new town doctor after the previous one disappeared under mysterious circumstances. He hosts a lavish dinner party to thank the town for such a warm welcome. They complement his excellent cooking and confess to him that they’d never really liked Dr. Chilton anyway.

At night, he takes his Wendigo form and makes sure he is seen. In the morning, he politely assuages the fears of the townspeople - Wendigos haven’t been seen in these parts for fifty years, after all.

Then, quietly, he starts to kill. After the third body is found, hysteria mounts. He consoles the mourners and expresses adequately detached concern for the horrible goings-on in their peaceful little town. He suggests that perhaps they request the services of a Mr. Will Graham, known sometimes as the Fearsome Dragon Slayer.

“I’d be happy to offer him my home,” Doctor Lecter says. “It’s the least I could do.”

Chesapeake expresses their gratitude and a telegram is sent.

Then Will Graham arrives and all Hannibal’s plans go to hell.

-x-

Observing him from afar did not remotely do his beauty justice. Close up in the flesh, Will Graham is nothing short of stunning. His ever-changing eyes are like crystals cut from deep within a mountain. His mouth is a lush Cupid’s bow that begs sweetly to be kissed. His skin is pale and creamy, like fresh milk, and Hannibal wants to paint every inch of it with blood.

He makes the decision immediately. Before he kills Will Graham, he has to fuck him.

They dine together the first evening, Hannibal watching in pleasure as Will devours the townspeople he has come to save. They drink in his study after in companionable silence. Will is pleasantly loose-limbed from whiskey and a good meal, and Hannibal cannot resist attempting to get a peek inside that elegantly curved skull. He asks Will if he enjoys killing, not expecting a direct response, of course, but eager to see what his reaction will be. Will’s stammering evasiveness confirms what Hannibal already suspected and delight fills him to the brim. Even Will’s subsequent rudeness does not break the spell (especially considering the delicious flush of arousal that creeps over Will’s cheeks as he excuses himself). After Will retires to bed, Hannibal stands outside his room, palm pressed to the door, and drinks in the scent of his lust.

Twilight passes into the witching hour, and Hannibal knows it’s far too romantic a thing to stand outside Will’s window transformed, but he cannot seem to help himself. It doesn’t take Will long to crawl out of his bed and spot him, and it takes him half the time it should to get from his room to the garden. He greets him barefoot, his curls in a gorgeous tangle..

“Hello, Doctor Lecter,” he says.

Hannibal truly hadn’t expected to be found out so quickly, but he finds himself decidedly glad of it. Even gladder when Will freely admits that yes, he loves to kill. Gladder still when Hannibal reveals the Ravenstag to Will and Will responds with breathless awe. He runs those musical fingers through Hannibal’s mane of feathers and it feels like a missing piece clicks into his soul. Once they come in from the cold, Will practically throws himself at him, clearly touch-starved and wanting. He kisses as though he is famished, and Hannibal is glad to provide a feast.

He feasts on Will first though - lays him back on onyx silk sheets and spreads open his thighs. He licks and sups at him, circling sloppy kisses around his entrance and teasing him with the barest brush of fingers. He whips him into such a frenzy with his tongue that all Will can do is garble incoherently beneath him, leaking copiously onto his own stomach. Hannibal pushes his tongue inside him and is immeasurably delighted when Will comes from that alone, making needy mewling sounds, his cock entirely untouched. He licks up the mess on Will’s stomach and kisses it into his mouth. Will sighs sweetly against him, dreamily pliant as Hannibal straddles him and comes in streaks over his neck and chest.

When Will leaves the house the next day, Hannibal stares out his kitchen window for an hour and a half.

He has fucked Will Graham. So now he can kill him.

Except… he doesn’t quite want to.

He spends the day restless, an itch he cannot reach vibrating just under his skin. He allows himself a brief visit to his own memory palace, just to bask in Will’s scent again, and is shocked to find Will there with him. He plasters himself to Will’s back and slides his hands down his hips, whispering hot words into his ear.

Will comes home a full three hours before he is supposed to. Hannibal just tosses him over his shoulder like a ragdoll, hauls him upstairs, and does not release him until he’s come twice - once in Hannibal’s mouth and a second time with tight little thrusts between Hannibal’s thighs.

They eat another sumptuous dinner. Will has surmised its contents and eats with gusto. Hannibal stares at him lovingly, and--

 _Oh_ , Hannibal thinks, _Shit_.

He takes Will to bed that evening and makes love to him almost silently - save the soft hushing murmurs and little catches of breath. He’s more tender than he has ever been with any lover, and it frightens him down to the shell of his heart, but what scares him even more is how very not frightened he is.

Will comes with Hannibal’s name on his lips, and Hannibal knows what must be done.

They conquer Chesapeake together, a consummation that Hannibal would find breathtaking if he had any real breath to give. He has never killed with anyone before, but they work together so effortlessly he feels like he must have been doing this all his life. When they are done, Will stands before him, his alabaster skin streaked with scarlet. He looks like something out of a dream.

Will is fearless when Hannibal transforms him, fearless when the Ravenstag’s antlers run him through, fearless when he falls lifeless to the ground.

Hannibal carries him in his arms to the small cabin he has kept for such an occasion (except nothing had truly prepared him for an occasion such as this). He dips his thumbs into Will’s wound and smears the blood on his eyelids, then bites one thumb open and lets the drops fall into Will’s mouth. He whispers words in a language he hasn’t spoken in twenty years, hand hovering over Will’s heart. Then he binds Will’s stomach carefully, sits back his chair with a book, and waits.

Will wakes the following afternoon, his eyes fluttering open.

“Hannibal,” he murmurs.

It sounds like the first word he’s ever heard in his life. Will stares at him with naked devotion and Hannibal smiles so wide it pains him.

Fangs descend from Will’s mouth. They kiss until they bleed. Will asks Hannibal what he has become and Hannibal answers truthfully: whatever he wants to be.

(He knows, as one who loves another knows, what Will’s final form will be, but he’s excited to meet the Wolf all the same)

When he is sure Will has the stamina, Hannibal clambers atop Will and spears himself open with his own fingers. He coats Will in oil and rides him hard, his head thrown back to display the taut line of his throat. Will sits up and bites, digging his fingers into the meat of Hannibal’s ass. They come simultaneously with a harmonized howl, and fall atop each other panting.

Mischa visits his dreams that night. She wears a long white dress and her black hair hangs loose about her shoulders. She holds out her hand to him.

“Why are you crying, Perkūnas?”

“I’m sorry, Little Tornado,” Hannibal says, “I could not avenge you.”

He falls to his knees and wraps his arms around her small waist. She holds him gently and strokes his hair.

“Silly brother,” Mischa says. “The dragon took your heart. Did you not find it again?”

Hannibal looks up at her in confusion. “What?”

Mischa cups his cheek in her soft palm.

“Be happy, Perkūnas. That is your vengeance.”

Hannibal leans into her hand, places his larger one over the back of hers.

“Love him well,” Mischa says. She stoops to kiss his forehead. Hannibal closes his eyes and feels the brush of feathers.

The white bird takes to the air and disappears in a brilliant blaze of white light.

Hannibal wakes with a start, his cheeks wet. Will hovers over him with tender concern.

“Hannibal?” 

He gathers Will in his arms and holds him tight. Neither of them speak.

“I think,” Hannibal says after awhile, “I should tell you about -” His voice cuts out. Even now it’s so hard to say her name.

Will looks at him thoughtfully.

“You can tell me when you’re ready,” he says, nuzzling Hannibal’s cheek, “I’m going to be around for a very long time.”

Hannibal stares down at his beloved, mesmerized. He could kiss this man, this monster, for every minute of his exceedingly long life and each kiss would feel like the first. He will never tire of the fearsome ecstasy that is loving Will Graham.

“Kiss me?" Hannibal asks, his voice soft and small.

Will smiles that lovely little crinkling smile, the one that means he’s truly happy. The one that only Hannibal gets to see.

“Always,” Will whispers in reply. He tilts his head and kisses Hannibal again for the first time.

Will’s mouth opens quickly under his, honest in his need, and they drink each other down in long languorous kisses until their lips are sore.

Then they kiss a little longer.

“You know,” Hannibal confesses later that evening, “I was going to kill you.”

Moonlight filters through the window and casts down a silver glow that reflects in Will’s eyes. He smiles with beautifully sharp teeth.

“I know,” Will says, “I’m so glad you did.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos bring me endless love <3
> 
>  
> 
> ~~This will be the last part of the series, but I may start an offshoot "Storm Vignettes" series that will be updated from time to time.~~
> 
>  
> 
> ETA: Welp, that's a lie. There will be at least two more installments which have been outlined and will finish/round out the series (Storm Vignettes may still happen but those won't be part of that). Look for Part 6: The Feathered-Fangéd-Fawn in the coming week ;-)
> 
> Thank you all for your lovely support of the #MonsterHusbands universe. You make me so deliciously happy!
> 
> (tumblr @[lovecrimevariations)](http://lovecrimevariations.tumblr.com/)


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